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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304942">not nothing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection'>thesecretdetectivecollection</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(it isn't gay if he's dying you guys), Bed Sharing also For Medical ReasonsTM, Gen, also nakedness for Medical ReasonsTM, fratt week prompt: water, if i wrote a sequel to this verse it probably would be, not really romantic but like...</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:54:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,609</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt takes an unexpected dip in the Hudson in the middle of winter and proceeds to collapse into the first abandoned space he finds. </p><p>It's just his luck that that happens to be Frank Castle's safehouse. </p><p>---</p><p>Frank's on his way back from patrol when he sees a broken window and a heap of wet red fabric. Someone in hell is definitely looking up and laughing at him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Castle &amp; Matt Murdock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fratt Week</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>not nothing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The water is icy. Not only does it freeze his skin, it seems to pierce it, sharp, pointed shards going further, freezing the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs, the neurons in his brain. Matt barely has a moment to gasp in a breath before he sinks below the surface to be baptized anew in the grimy, unholy water of the Hudson.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/><br/></p><p>Matt thinks he remembers his baptism. He’s not sure if it’s a real memory, since he was only a few months old at the time, but he likes to pretend it’s real. But he definitely remembers watching a video of it, over and over dozens of times, his father sitting beside him. It was one of the few times he’d gotten to see his mother, the only evidence that he’d <em>had</em> a mother once, that he hadn’t been left on the steps of the fire station or brought down by an angel to his dad.</p><p>He’d sit next to his dad, or sometimes, in early days, on his lap, one strong forearm around his belly. His dad would get up and put the cassette into the VCR, pressing play.</p><p>“There you are,” he’d say, pointing to a little baby carried in the arms of a thin, young woman with a drawn face and bags beneath her eyes.</p><p>One time, Matt had looked at his father, watching him as he’d watched the clip, and he had a smile on his face, small but almost achingly sincere.</p><p>Matty had asked him why, once.</p><p>“You used to be pretty cute,” his dad had joked, scrunching up his face, “what happened, kiddo?”</p><p>But then, he had looked at Matty, and the smile had faded from his face. He’d reached out and drawn Matt into his arms, holding him tight.</p><p>“The day you were born, Matty, was the best day of my life.”</p><p>He’s a fat little baby, all cheeks and tummy in a frilly white gown.</p><p>“Why’m I wearing a dress?!” Matt had demanded, annoyed. “Are you sure that’s me and not a girl?”</p><p>His dad laughed.</p><p>“Sorry, Matty, that was grandma—she insisted that you wear a christening gown, the whole fancy white thing. And you know what grandma’s like.”</p><p>Matty did know, and he had nodded knowingly, making his father laugh.</p><p>In the video, his mother hands him over to Father Lantom, who gently dips him into the water, feet first, then on each side, then down on his front and his back. It’s a quick process, and then the Father cups some holy water in his hands, pouring it over Matt’s face. The baby—Matt has trouble imagining it as himself—screams. His mother’s lips twitch upwards for a moment before falling back down, as if it had been a tremendous effort to smile, even for that brief instant. When Father Lantom finishes, he holds out the fat little bundle, now wet, to Matty’s mother, but she just looks at it blankly for a second or two.</p><p>That’s when Matt’s daddy steps forward and takes the wet baby in his arms. He holds Matt close, even though his shirt’s getting wet, and takes a towel from a helpful usher, wrapping it around Matt. He rocks him back and forth, and gradually, Matt stops crying.</p><p>“There you go, Matty,” his father had said to him, sitting next to him. “That’s your baptism.”</p><p>“Why’d they do it to you when you’re so little? If they did it now, I wouldn’ta cried,” Matty’d complained.</p><p>“I know, baby, you’re super brave now. Now go brush your teeth, it’s time for bed.”</p><p>Matt would argue about it, even at that age, for at least twenty minutes, until his dad would relent and they’d stay up watching tv. But Jack Murdock was no idiot, either, and at those times, after Matt’s bedtime, they’d watch the news, and Matt would fall asleep to the soothing sound of the newscaster in under ten minutes.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/>When he hits the water, he’s struck by its frigid temperature. But it is so cold that his blood retreats from his skin and he no longer feels cold, only a pleasant, deadly numbness in his fingers and toes, traveling up his ankles and wrists to knees and elbows.</p><p>He’s never been a good swimmer. He hadn’t had much of an opportunity to practice when he was younger, and then he’d lost his sight and his father in quick succession, and it fell to the wayside. Stick had found out, predictably, in the course of training Matt to be a warrior. He’d almost sympathized—as much as Stick ever did—and had gone about ensuring that Matt would at the very least not drown immediately when in water. It was something they’d been working on pretty consistently, but then Stick left. Matt didn’t keep up with it on his own, partially because it was hard to explain why he wanted to swim, partially because it was difficult to find someone who could teach him, but mostly because the water rushed in his ears and rendered him truly blind, unable to feel objects in space the same way.  </p><p>Luckily, he’s still able to not drown immediately, and he manages an undignified doggy paddle to shore. If anyone sees him, Daredevil will become a punchline, not a hero. Criminals won’t fear him, they’ll be too busy laughing at him. He pulls himself out of the water. Now that he’s not in the river anymore, he becomes aware all over again of the way his suit is soaked through. There’s not much wind, but it feels like it beats against his skin, and he wonders if he can make it back before hypothermia sets in.</p><p>He feels the grime on his skin, the weight of the water making every step harder. The suit is designed to deflect blows, not for swimming. It’s fine in rainstorms, but it isn’t meant to be submerged, and Matt feels it. The chill inches past his bones and starts to work on his organs with their vital functions. If he can get inside, at least he’ll be out of the wind, and maybe he’ll find some warm nook somewhere to thaw his frozen body. It’s a bit of a pipe dream, considering the time and the area, but sewer grates usually have a warm draft coming out of them. It’ll stink, and Matt will smell a potent cocktail of feces and urine and decay, but at least he won’t freeze to death.</p><p>But it’s so cold, and he wants to go inside somewhere. There’s an empty apartment, abandoned, and he finds the strength inside to somehow pull himself up the rusted fire escape. He looks at the locked window and sighs. He’s so tired, and he’s so close to being able to rest. Fuck it, he thinks, and busts through the window with his elbow. He leans in and unlocks the window and lifts up the sash.</p><p>He half-stumbles, half-falls into the apartment. It’s sparse, but not quite as empty as he’d thought it would be. There’s something familiar about the space, but Matt’s too tired to do much more than listen for any heartbeats. It’s easier than it should be, to just lay down, arm under his head as a pillow.</p><p>It’s so easy, in fact, that it should be setting off alarm bells.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/>           </p><p>“Steve’s dad takes him fishing,” Matt informed his father, “Can we go fishing, too?”</p><p>Jack’s more surprised than anything else. His bookish little boy wants to go fishing? And where can you even go fishing in New York City anyway?</p><p>“Where’s this comin’ from, Matty?”</p><p>“Steve’s goin’ fishing with his dad.”</p><p>“And where does Steve’s dad live?”</p><p>“Up north, he said. Well, he said it was in the middle of bumfu—”</p><p>“Language, Matthew. Your grandma will wash your mouth out with soap if she ever hears you using that word, you hear me?”</p><p>Matt nods impatiently. “So can we go?”</p><p>“Matty, Steve’s dad lives up north, probably near woods, and the water there is nice and clean—there’s lots of good fish living there. But the rivers here—they’re not clean. You’d get sick if we ate fish from that river. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”</p><p>A quiet, childish sigh.</p><p>“I might <em>not</em> get sick,” Matt had offered stubbornly, “I’m a strong boy, Gramma says so.”</p><p>“You are,” Jack agrees, and he wraps his arms around Matt and lifts him up, even though Matt’s six now and Gramma says he’s too big to get picked up. “But getting sick isn’t about how strong you are, kiddo. How ‘bout the zoo?”</p><p>Matt likes the zoo. It’s fun, and fishing sounds kind of boring anyway.</p><p>“Can we go see the tigers and the lions?”</p><p>Jack lays a finger on his chin, looking up thoughtfully. “Y’know what, I think if you buy me ice cream, maybe we can go see the tigers and the lions. Even the panda bears!”</p><p>“Daddy, I don’t have any money!” Matty protests, giggling a little as his dad tickles his tummy.</p><p>“Hmm, okay, I’ll buy the ice cream, then. Go get your coat on, bud.”</p><p>           </p><p>---<br/><br/></p><p>Frank’s muscles tense long before he sees the broken window. There’s been a feeling in his gut, and as he heads back to the safehouse, he feels a prickle at the back of his neck. It’s the same sense he’d had in Afghanistan before IEDs went off, the same instinct that made him duck even before he heard the shot that was aiming right where he’d been a second ago.</p><p>He doesn’t even go straight back to his apartment. He goes to the next building over and climbs to the roof, setting up a scope. If there’s going to be a situation, he’d prefer to know that going in, and if he can take care of it from a distance? That’s even better.</p><p>The window’s broken. It could be nothing, but Frank’s luck suggests it’s definitely <em>not</em> nothing. He wonders if the Irish have built back up yet. Dogs of Hell have moved down to Brooklyn. The cartel’s been quiet lately, but maybe there’s some chatter he hasn’t heard. Either way, he’s going to have to figure out who the hell knows where he keeps his emergency supplies.</p><p>There’s no movement within the apartment, though.</p><p>He bites the bullet and goes over to the rope bridge he’s jerry-rigged in case he needs to escape the building in a hurry. It’s a bit risky, but Lord knows nobody in this goddamn city looks up until hell’s raining down.</p><p>He gets to the window and taps a finger where it lays, just below the trigger. He slips in to assess... and almost trips over a body.</p><p>Sodden red fabric, heavy duty boots, belt holster—not for a useful weapon like a gun or a knife, just a couple plain black sticks. Oversized toothpicks. Leave it up to Red to go out with the shittiest possible weapons.</p><p>How in God’s name did the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen end up in Frank Castle’s safe house, of all places?</p><p>Somebody’s looking up at Frank from the depths of hell and laughing their ass off.</p><p>He kneels down and puts a hand on Red’s shoulder, giving him a shake. But he can’t rouse him.</p><p>“Hey, come on,” Frank mutters. But Red, as usual, continues to disappoint. He’s starting to shiver now, trembling almost uncontrollably. What on earth had propelled him to take a swim? Was there a kitten that fell in the river or something?</p><p>Frank sighs. How to get the man undressed? He looks for a zipper or something for the suit, and of course the zip isn’t on the back, but along the side. He turns on the little space heater in the corner near the bed first, then pulls the suit off as gently as he can—not that it seems to matter, since Red’s out cold. He and Red have run into each other a few times at this point, but he’s never seen the man naked before. There are scars—matching slashes on his chest, on his forearms, across his shoulder blades. Whoever gave him those wasn’t messing around. Knowing Red, the guy’s probably still alive, and the world’s worse off for it.</p><p>There are other scars too, less eye-catching but still brutal—small puckers from gunshots, jagged knife wounds. Some of them are well-healed, others, less so. Frank wonders who Red’s nurse is—he knows the difference between gritting your teeth and doing your own stitches and having a steady presence there doing it for you. Maybe Red doesn’t notice the difference, but it’s written across his skin, clear as day.</p><p>Red’s still shivering violently, his skin pale and cold. Frank feels an abrupt prick of guilt, knowing that he’s wasting time just looking at him. He shakes his head for a second, then hauls Red’s trembling body up into his arms and picks him up. He’s so cold against Frank’s body. He stops shivering, though, once he starts to feel Frank’s body heat. He gets him onto the mattress in the corner.</p><p>The thing is, he hasn’t taken Red’s briefs off. The black shorts are tight and wet, and it’s time to bite the bullet. He tugs them down and very carefully <em>doesn’t</em> look at Red’s dick, laying flaccid against his thigh. Frank then grabs a clean pair of his own boxers, maneuvering them up Red’s legs so the guy doesn’t wake up naked in a strange place. Frank puts him on the bed and for a moment, Red actually looks… small.</p><p>He’s not. Frank knows this. He can remember the force behind Red’s punches, the way the muscle is packed tightly onto his lean frame. He remembers that, and yet that doesn’t look like the man in front of him, cold and wet, all pale, naked skin, trembling like a baby deer.</p><p><em>He’s not helpless</em>, Frank reminds himself. Red is the fucking <em>opposite</em> of helpless. He finds the few blankets he has and tucks them around him, and that seems to help—he lets out a soft exhale, as if of relief, and his jaw relaxes the slightest bit. Frank tugs the space heater closer, aims it directly at Red’s torso, and then takes a step back.</p><p>It’s better—the man isn’t shaking like a damn leaf anymore, but he’s not completely still, either, and his muscles are still tense. He turns towards the heater and curls into a ball, trying to conserve heat.</p><p>“Out of all the gin joints in all the world, you just <em>had</em> to walk into mine, huh?” Frank says quietly. Maria had always loved <em>Casablanca</em>.</p><p>He’s not expecting a reply, nor does he get one, other than the chattering of teeth.</p><p>He finds himself an MRE, cracks it open and digs in, glancing over to Red now and again. He’s still shivering, and as much as Frank’s tried, the safehouse is still a little drafty. He tosses the MRE onto a table and chugs some water before heading to the toilet to take a piss.</p><p>After that, he cleans his favorite assault rifle, and his second favorite. He reaches for another, but finally acknowledges that he’s stalling.</p><p>He’s a man who does the things he needs to do, but God, if he can put them off for a minute or two…</p><p>He strips off his shirt and deliberately chooses to leave his pants on before climbing onto the mattress and lifting the blankets—Murdock shudders violently at the rush of cold air against his skin.</p><p><em>For hypothermia</em>, Frank thinks to himself, resigned to his fate, and lays down, chest pressed against Murdock’s back. His skin is so cold, Frank gets goosebumps on his arms, but after awhile, he starts to warm up. Murdock turns around, and there’s the stark realization that his back may have warmed up, but his chest is still cold.</p><p>Frank’s used to long nights, keeping watch, but it’s been a tough few days, and he’s in his safehouse, and for once, he lets down his guard enough to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/><br/></p><p>Matt wakes feeling hot, head full of cotton wool. He shifts, but the blankets are tucked in tight around him. In the course of his flailing, he encounters another person. His first thought is Foggy, falling into bed together in a drunken stupor when Matt can’t be trusted to get home safe. But the chest he feels under his palms is too firm and too broad to be Foggy’s.</p><p>Did he take someone home last night? Because his first thought is that that doesn’t sound right—he’s been going out most nights and he hasn’t gotten laid in over a month. But his second thought is self-congratulatory. If he’d picked someone up, at least he’d picked someone who feels fit.</p><p>“You done gropin’ me, Red?”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, shit</em>
</p><p>“Oh, shit.” A pause. “Frank. Uh, hi.”</p><p>There’s a deep rumble of laughter, a sound that Matt can feel under his palms just as much as he can hear it.</p><p>“Mornin’, Red.”</p><p>Matt’s hands are still on his chest. He can feel the soft prickle of chest hair under his palms, over the warm skin and hard muscle and the roughness of scar tissue. Abruptly, he withdraws his hands, realizing as he does that it hadn’t exactly been <em>burdensome</em>, having his skin against Frank’s.</p><p>He lays back, trying to ignore the source of heat next to him. He thinks back to the last night. He vaguely remembers breaking a window to an abandoned apartment, only to realize that it wasn’t actually abandoned.</p><p>“What are the chances this was your safehouse?” he mutters.</p><p>“Probably about the same as the chance of getting hit by lightning on a sunny day,” Frank says with the sound of a smile tugging at his harsh mouth.</p><p>“It’s so hot,” Matt mutters, pulling the blankets from where they’re tucked against his body and feeling a wave of warm air from the space heater.</p><p>Frank reaches out and Matt can’t help but flinch.</p><p>“Calm the fuck down. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have waited until you were awake to do it.”</p><p>“Such a gentleman,” Matt grumbles, but he forces himself to remain still, feeling Frank’s calloused palm on his forehead.</p><p>“You were trying to freeze to death last night, and now you’re burning up—Jesus Christ, Red, you really are a piece of fuckin’ work.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>“Wasn’t a compliment.”</p><p>Matt smirks.</p><p>“Wasn’t it?” He can imagine that Frank’s rolling his eyes. If Foggy were here, he’d definitely be rolling his eyes.</p><p>He can feel it as Frank sits up and shifts to stretch out his back. There’s a handful of sharp cracks that provide Matt with a glimpse into his future. He feels the weight of Frank’s gaze.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” His voice is rough, and a little awkward, as if he’s not quite sure how to ask.</p><p>“Like I took a dive out of a burning building directly into the Hudson in the middle of winter.”</p><p>Frank snorts. “So an average Saturday night for you, huh?”</p><p>Matt finds himself laughing, much to his own surprise. Frank’s abrupt inhale suggests that he’s surprised, too.</p><p>He has questions but asking them when things between them are almost normal, almost <em>easy,</em> is not a risk Matt’s willing to take.</p><p>He moves, and his body takes the opportunity to inform him that it is sore. More so than usual. It’s not the pain of a punch to the gut, or an elbow to the windpipe. It’s the ache of muscles that have been way too tense for way too long. It is the ache of biceps that have to hold a pullup for hours on end.</p><p>“Thanks for—” what, exactly? For taking care of me? Not kicking my ass? He doesn’t know how to express it. So he just waves a hand, gesturing at the mattress, the space heater, the whole place.</p><p>Frank grunts and there’s a rush of air, as if he’s just waved away Matt’s thanks. Matt grins, waiting for him to realize what he’s just done in front of a blind man. He’s got lifetime tickets to this particular show, and while it gets old sometimes, there are other times, like right now, when it’s still deliciously awkward.</p><p>There’s a lull. Matt waits it out, wishing he could hear neurons firing so he’d know exactly how fast Frank was processing.</p><p>“Shit, uh, sorry. I—I <em>waved</em>, I guess? It’s nothin’.”</p><p>“Not letting me die is not nothing,” Matt says quietly, because he knows what Frank means, but he can’t let him walk away from this. He deserves the credit.</p><p>“You woulda done the same.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Matt agrees, “and if I did, it wouldn’t have been nothing, either.”</p><p>Frank goes quiet, maybe because he can’t think of a good response, but maybe because he agrees.</p><p>Matt moves gingerly, and the fog in his head seems to be dissipating a little. As he shifts, there’s a rush of air against his thighs and his dick, and suddenly, he realizes something.</p><p>“Frank?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“This… isn’t my underwear, is it.” Not a question.</p><p>A sigh. “No, Red, it is not. Your boxers are next to the suit, near the heater so they could dry off.”</p><p>Matt cringes—not so much at being touched as having been so fucking <em>helpless</em>, so vulnerable that Frank Castle, of all people, had had to change his underwear.</p><p>He’s torn between wanting to thank him again, which will only make them both uncomfortable, and wanting to forget the whole thing.</p><p>“Not nothing,” he repeats instead, voice quiet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so I started this literal weeks ago, but then in the middle it sort of dragged and stretched (imagine, if you will, biting into a mozzarella stick- at first the cheese is nice and melty, but then you realize that there's no end, that you might spend the rest of your life trying to break this unnaturally elastic cheese). </p><p>So the point of this is that Matt was supposed to get an infection from the river, Frank was then supposed to care for him, Feelings would then arise, and who knows where it would've gone from there. That part might (?) get written at some point in the future, but who knows.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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